


Explanatory Variables

by 3littleowls



Series: The Detective's Antidote [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Emotions, First Time Topping, I can write the whole story in tags, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Masturbation, Mild Kink, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Relationship(s), Power Play, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Identity, The Talk, Topping from the Bottom, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/pseuds/3littleowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darin and Sherlock finally have an honest talk about sexual compatibility. </p><p> </p><p>AU Timeframe- during the story <em>Revival</em>  a few days after the encounter in Darin’s kitchen. If you have not read <em>Revival</em>, or it's been a while you will want to read that one first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explanatory Variables

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/gifts).



_All of our reasoning ends in surrender to feeling._  
-Blaise Pascal 

 

Sherlock glances up when Darin adjusts the cushion under his back and settles back down on the sofa. There are dark smudges under his eyes, and Sherlock can tell he’s worn out from grading exams, and from the stress of the end of the academic year. It was probably wise that he is taking the rest of the day off to laze about and simply read for pleasure. It’s a good afternoon for it; the sky is dark outside the window of Darin’s flat.

Tracking Sherlock’s glance out the window, Darin mutters, “Damn. It’s pissing down like Noah is going to float by in his mythical ark at any moment.” 

Sherlock chuckles. He sits in the one armchair, barefoot, shirtsleeves rolled up, in his thinking pose with his fingers steepled under his philtrum. He should be bored and pacing the floor, but he is somehow content just watching his beau read. He seeks out Darin’s company with increasing frequency, and he still isn’t sure what to conclude from that.

Darin yawns. He picks up the tablet computer next to his cup to resume reading his magazine. That is, until overwhelmed with curiosity, Sherlock plucks the tablet from his hands. 

“Hey!”

“What are you reading?” Sherlock asks, scrolling through his device with a growing scowl. “Gay travel articles?”

“What’s wrong with travel articles?” Darin reaches for it, but Sherlock pulls it further away from his grasping hands and keeps scrolling through.

“Gay travel articles. Really quite pedestrian.” Sherlock makes to plop down at the end of the sofa. Darin scoots his legs out just in time to keep himself from getting sat upon. “Are you going to hit the club scene in Germany any time soon?” Sherlock feels a sharp jab of jealousy, and hands him back the device with a frown. Darin does leave London quite frequently for work, and they have not yet discussed being exclusive. The thought of him seeking out other men makes his stomach churn.

“I’m getting a bit old for that, I think.” Darin studies him for a long moment, and then finally regards him with determination. He sets the tablet down on the table. “You don’t really identify as being gay, do you?”

 _Ah. He has finally worked up the courage to ask me about my celibacy. Inevitable,_ Sherlock thinks to himself. He pulls his legs up and hugs them to his chest as if he’s trying to draw himself into a ball. He doesn’t reply. This will not go well.

“This isn’t some kind of quiz where you can give the wrong answer.”

Sherlock looks up to the ceiling. “Ah, but my reply could have consequences. What if I give you an answer you do not like?” 

“I doubt how you label yourself will send me running for the hills,” Darin assures him.

Sherlock laughs bitterly. “Labeling is simply a method to resolve complexity. It’s an excellent way to categorize deviant behavior. I do so myself, when analyzing the criminal mind.”

Darin cocks his head, trying to keep up with the turn of the conversation. “I’m sorry Sherlock, what?”

“Oh god, you're stupid sometimes, too. Labels are only useful in the broadest of applications, even and then, have very limited appeal. You are asking me how I categorize my sexuality, are you not? Your answer is that I haven’t bothered.”

“You did tell me once that you were asexual.”

Sherlock waves it off with a flick of his hand. “You forgot sociopath. It was a diagnosis by someone eminent in the field. A convenient sorting of atypical behavior patterns that fitted as well as any other. Anyhow, you are inaccurate. What I said is that I wasn’t sure. Does this matter?”

“So you are telling me you don’t like to be labeled.That’s fine, and no, it doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock snaps,“Why are we having this delightful chat about something that doesn’t matter?”

Darin slides over to Sherlock. He gently pulls his hands off his knees, getting him to uncurl so they are facing each other.

“Because I am fumbling in the dark with you. Sometimes I touch you and you pull away. Sometimes you slam me against the kitchen counter and get off on my thigh. I don’t know what you want.”

Sherlock flushes and tries to turn away. He is still mortified over his loss of self control a few days ago. Fumbling like a teenager in rut had been bad enough. Then he had collapsed and inexplicably wept afterwards. The last time he had cried in front of another was on the rooftop at Bart’s.

Darin traps his hands. “Don’t you dare be embarrassed about that.”

“Must we keep talking about this?” Sherlock would like to delete this whole conversation at the earliest opportunity.

“I am trying to get to know you better. A little clarity would help.” 

They both sit and listen to the rain. Darin idly rubs Sherlock’s wrist with his thumb. He’s trying to wait him out, looking into his eyes, trying to offer encouragement. Sherlock can’t abide the tenderness he sees, so he shifts his focus to some small divot in the plaster. 

At some point Darin must realize if he keeps silent, he will be waiting forever. “All right,” he signs, looking thoughtful. “I’m going to tell you what I think I know, and you get to correct me when I’m wrong. You’ll like that,” Darin quips. 

_Good luck,_ Sherlock thinks to himself. He keeps studying the wall.

Darin sighs. “You get upset when you lose your concentration, or what you perceive as control over yourself. When you relax your grip just a little bit and just let yourself feel, you do seem to enjoy it. It’s difficult for you to loosen up though, and I hazard that it’s frightening. You have to really let go to have an orgasm, so it’s not a very comfortable thing for you, at all.”

Sherlock hmms. Darin pulls his chin down and forces him to look at him.

“Sometimes you practically crawl into my personal space and want to be touched. Sometimes, you pull away like I’m burning you. I don’t know why.”

Sherlock lets out a long breath. “There are times when I get overloaded with input. Smells, sounds, visual stimuli. Touch.” He pauses, then continues in a whispered rush. “I can see that you think you did something wrong; that is not the case. You flinch away, guilty and it...I don’t like the fact that I am the cause of that.”

Darin smile is encouraging. “Thank you for telling me. We can work on that.”

“Have you come to the end of your deductions so soon? I was finding it rather amusing,” Sherlock retorts. 

Darin rises to the challenge. “I’m starting to think you’d rather be in control over things, rather than trying to always predict what my next move is going to be. However, your lack of experience makes you tenative. Since I’m prodding you about your proclivities, I guess it’s fair to mention I’m not usually the aggressive partner. I’ve been pursuing you because you are hesitant, but really, well, for a lack of a better term, I tend to bottom. If you want, I can wait and let you initiate things more, progress them in your own time. We may both be more comfortable with that.”

Sherlock lifts his brows a bit. That was certainly an unexpected turn.

“Sorry. A bit too much?” Darin asks.

“No.”

Darin reaches over and runs a finger over Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock swallows hard before admitting, “If I am not sure what I want to do, it seems imprudent to be the dominant one.”

“Sex is playing. It’s supposed to be fun. Just explore and see where you go and what you like. If I don’t like something, or if I can guide you, I’ll tell you. Also, it’s completely fine to put the brakes on whenever you want. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, although, I do marvel at your self control. You know you can always stop, right? That’s important.”

“I know that. I’m not a simpleton.”

Darin shakes his head. “No, but it just seemed like a good thing to put out there.”

Sherlock grimaces. “We must be done talking.”

“For now, anyway.”

Sherlock leans back on the sofa, and tugs Darin down so he can lie between his knees, his back propped against Sherlock’s chest. He reaches over and hands him the tablet back. “Go back to reading your silly publication. You can keep me warm at the same time, since your plain flat lacks a fireplace.”

Darin shifts until he finds a cozy spot. “I hope you realize that I did not just give you permission to sass me outside the bedroom.”

“As if I ever needed your permission.” Sherlock nuzzles into his hair and breathes. “Your conclusions, by the way, were acceptable. Incomplete of course, but sufficient in their simplicity. I especially like your idea of ‘playful exploration’. Sounds like an experiment, don’t you think?”

Darin groans. “Oh gods, what have I done?”

Sherlock smiles impishly against the back of his head. “You handed yourself over to me. Quite ill-advised. What has been done is done, I am afraid.”

Sherlock lets out an undignified yelp as Darin pinches a ticklish spot on his knee. “Don’t get too cocky until you prove your mettle.”

Sherlock’s deep chuckle vibrates through Darin’s back. They settle down to quiet cuddling, and Darin goes back to his reading. Sherlock lets his breathing deepen, intending to meditate for a while. However, questions form in his mind before he can quiet his thoughts.

“You said you were getting too old for the club scene. Which implies that at one time, you were not,” he rumbles near Darin’s ear.

“Yes. Well, I was actually younger at one point. You are a savant, Sherlock,” Darin says dryly. “I thought you wanted out of this conversation?”

“It has become intriguing. Now it is about you.”

Darin rolls his eyes. “Yes, I did a bit of partying. Before I got a tenured position. Ancient times.”

“That is unsatisfyingly vague.”

“After I had to drag you painfully through the our last talk? Yes it is. Come on, then. The great sleuth must already know my sordid history. Deduce me.”

“Sordid is it? Well.” Sherlock thinks for a moment. “This was after you came back from graduate studies at Boston, which puts you at around twenty-five at the time. If you wanted to investigate clubs, it seems odd you would have waited so long. Boston is commonplace, obviously. It would not compare to the London scene, but it must have suitable establishments. So why didn’t you go? Too wrapped up in your studies? That would fit, but no. You warned me off when we first met, said you were bad at maintaining relationships. Steady boyfriend while you were in university, then. It must have gone sour, before you graduated and you went your separate ways.”

Darin winces. “I asked for this, didn’t I? Christopher. He was a brilliant programmer. Things ended badly, which was mostly my fault. He went to Silicon Valley to establish a video game company. I came back here.”

“So back home. Underwhelmed by your postdoctoral position, some ennui from the recent breakup, and simply a bit keen. You do seem rather preoccupied with sex, even now at thirty seven.”

“Watch it, you're making me sound like a slut,” Darin growls.

“You are uncomfortable talking about this. You feel shame. Interesting.”

Darin pauses. “Well, I suppose you should know. I wasn’t always very smart, or very safe. I had a scare, and a terrifying wait for blood test results. I was young. I suppose I thought I was invincible. Anyway, I was lucky and was negative. I learned my lesson.”

Sherlock frowns. “I am slightly surprised to hear about that lapse of judgement from you, Darin.”

“It’s not exactly my proudest moment, Sherlock,” he grumbles. “I don’t know. I got lost in the moment. It was an ego boost, I guess. I didn’t know that intellectual guys with glasses was a thing for some people. I got a lot of attention and I liked it. I didn’t do it for long. Maybe a year.”

“You stopped when you started seeing someone new,” Sherlock surmises.

“Yes.Then I got my position, and buried myself in my work. That was the end of sowing my wild oats, and here we are. Now you know.” Darin shifts a bit on the cushions. “You certainly do go on for someone who doesn’t like to talk. The tea has gone cold. Why don’t I put on another pot?” Darin goes to pull away, and Sherlock tightens his arms around him, preventing his escape.

“What happened to the boyfriend?” Sherlock asks. “You are being evasive. In my line of work, that means you left him floating in the Thames.” 

Darin slumps against him. When he speaks, it’s slow and sad. “He left. That one was my fault, too. He wanted my time. I spent too much of it in my lab and trying to publish enough to get tenure. He wanted to adopt kids someday. I didn’t. The end.” 

Sherlock notices he hasn’t been given a name this time. “You loved him.”

“I did,” Darin admits quietly, “Sherlock, I’m done talking for a time, alright?”

“When I talk to people, someone inevitably becomes upset.”

Darin finds Sherlock’s hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just remembered what a train wreck I am.”

“You?” 

“Yes, me. I still don’t know why the hell you want to be with me. I mean, you went thirty-eight years with no one. You can have anyone- hell you’re a minor celebrity. You choose a nerd like me who can’t hold a relationship together. I don’t get it.”

Sherlock laughs. “Darin, really. Your being melodramatic. I’m a recovering addict, a narcissist and a diagnosed sociopath. I certainly think you are getting the short end.” 

“I just don’t want to be the first person to break your heart.”  
“I have it on good authority I don’t have one,” Sherlock replies, automatically.

“That is shite, and you know it,” Darin says, with an edge of anger.

Silence sets between them, and Darin picks up the tablet again and makes a show of reading. Sherlock can tell he’s just scrolling through the pages and randomly flipping through images. He can sense the tension in his shoulders, and the lazy, relaxed atmosphere of the afternoon has vanished.

Sherlock lets the last words sink in. _Did_ he have a heart? He has never felt this way before. For most of his life, simply taking part in society had been hard enough. People were either tedious or untrustworthy. Previously, finding another person with whom to form an attachment with had seemed impossible. So why is it happening now?

He presumes he can blame part of this vulnerability on his friends- the small circle of people he has grown to depend on. Even he knows one does not hurl oneself off a building to protect individuals for whom one does not have a fondness. Especially John Watson, his moral compass and brother at arms. The steadfast man who showers praises, which he absorbs like rain in the desert. 

He grudgingly supposes The Woman added her own crack in his plaster. She had been a brilliant adversary, and she followed no man’s rules. He couldn’t help but to be beguiled by the heady combination of overt sensuality and the force of her personality. In the end, Irene was so deceitful and dangerous, it had been too risky to indulge. The fleeting temptation was a novel sensation to catalog, and nothing more.

You can't kill an idea once it's taken root. He knows he is capable of emotional bonds with his friends. He had once been enticed by someone clever and charming. If someone has the right combination of integrity, acumen and allure, was romance really so unimaginable? 

These thoughts create a swarm of nervous butterflies in Sherlock’s gut, so he pushes them aside to consider later on. Instead, he uses the continuing quiet to study the path of Darin’s hairline, clipped close along the back to his ear. It gets longer every centimeter, until it’s tousled on the top. His hair is the same color of the rich chocolate mousse Angelo serves, Sherlock notices. He bends to pull a strand between his lips curiously.

“Are you eating my hair?” Darin asks after a moment.

“Hmm. It should smell and taste like chocolate, but you use some kind of herbal shampoo. Plus Darin scent.”

“My shampoo is rosemary and mint. What pray tell, is ‘Darin scent’?”

Sherlock noses around behind his ear and sniffs. “Warm. Botanical, a bit musky. Sometimes a bit of ethanol from the lab.”

“The lab? Oh, _eau de moi_ sounds just charming. Call Chanel.” Darin giggles, ticklish from Sherlock’s snuffling around his ear.

Sherlock smiles against his neck, pleased that he is able to make him laugh, after making him sad before. He lets all his senses become absorbed in those scant centimeters of skin. Using his lips, he explores under Darin’s ear, just to taste the faint salt and feel the warmth of his skin. 

_What are you doing?_ A familiar inner voice asks, breaking Sherlock’s contentment. _This is complete madness. You need to leave, now. Delete this, erase it. No good can come of emotional weakness. Caring is not an advantage._ A sharp stab of panic freezes him as he listens to the babble inside his head.

Darin stops laughing. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock breathes in. Darin smells like sunny days in Regent’s Park. A hint of leather from Sherlock’s favorite shoemaker’s. Erlenmeyer flasks and flowers. What must be pheromones. Subtle. Intimately captivating. 

The internal voice skitters away, like an unwanted insect in the kitchen when the lights are flicked on. As the weeks pass, it’s losing its power. Perhaps it’s foolish, but Sherlock doesn’t want to be safe. There is an adventure to be had and new things to experience.

Reanimated, Sherlock nibbles down Darin’s neck. He has been given a golden ticket to explore, and that is simply too good to pass up. Does Darin still smell like green leaves behind his knees? What does the skin on the arch of his foot feel like? What sounds does he make in the throes of pleasure? 

Sherlock’s hands run down Darin’s chest, trying to catalog the valleys and ridges of muscle under his soft cotton shirt. The contrast between the cool feel of fabric sliding over the heat of the man underneath is both alluring and frustrating. Darin jumps a bit when fingers find his ribcage, and Sherlock stores away the new knowledge that he is ticklish there.

Darin turns his head, straining back towards Sherlock with closed eyes and parted lips. Kissing is not new for them, but now Darin is paused and waiting, instead of pursuing. Sherlock accepts the offer; brushes his mouth, feather light, over those lips, and Darin shivers. Sherlock kisses him the way he himself prefers- a wet slide of lips, light suction and gentle nips, tips of tongues only darting out for fleeting tastes.

The texture of Darin’s shirt is of waning interest, and Sherlock is plucking at the hem. He slides his hands under, finding bare skin. Darin sighs against his mouth. His skin is surprisingly soft. He wants more; he needs to see. He abandons Darin’s lips to tug at the bottom of his shirt. He hesitates before pulling it up, a sudden bit of nerves. It’s ridiculous, really, but he can’t help to look in Darin’s eyes for reassurance. 

Darin sits up, sets his glasses on the table and pulls the shirt off over his head. He drops it over the edge of the sofa and looks over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Don’t ask permission. I’ve already given you carte blanche. Take it.”

Something about that makes Sherlock’s mouth go dry. Darin settles back down as he was before, bare back pressed against Sherlock’s chest. The heat of his body radiates through Sherlock’s dress shirt, and it’s delicious. 

Nudity is nothing to him. He has seen hundreds of people undressed, mostly cold and on slabs. Sherlock knows his own body is nothing unique, and has no hangups about it. His musculature keeps him upright and his skin holds everything critical inside. His body is a vessel for his mind, nothing more, nothing less. 

Even if the body is transport, Sherlock is not blind to aesthetics. He uses it as a tool all the time, to manipulate people to get things he wants. The Woman had understood this. Beauty does not sway him. It is something he simply catalogs in his observations, as it impacts the behavior of others. 

Darin, leaning back on his chest and patiently waiting for his exploration, is an experience almost entirely new. His body is shockingly alluring. When Sherlock lets his eyes greedily rove over his torso, and he feels his own pulse rise. 

Darin is surprisingly muscular for a man with a deceptively small frame. Sherlock had, of course, noticed he felt firm when holding him, and had inferred fitness from the cut of his clothing. He knows Darin is an avid cyclist, and that is his preferred method of London transportation. Riding a bike does not explain the cut of his pectorals or the faint but visible outline of his abdominis muscles. He must be a member of a gym. When he finds the time to attend, Sherlock is uncertain. Early morning seems likely. 

Sherlock smoothes his hands over the expanse of naked skin. He traces the lines where sun has lightly tanned his arms on his biceps. He runs his thumbs through the patch of coarse chest hair over Darin’s sternum. His pinky plays connect the dots between small moles on his belly. Sherlock is aware his own arousal is building into a pleasant background buzz as he explores. It feels very good, and that’s enough for him right now.

“I can feel the difference between your right and left hands, just from the callouses from the violin,” Darin remarks, somewhat dreamily.

Sherlock hums and investigates the texture of a nipple. Darin twists and whimpers. He then pulls his arms up, stretching himself out, and locks his hands behind Sherlock’s upper back. Darin pulls a bit, to feel the tautness in his limbs, and sighs. 

The sight of him hyperextended and so very vulnerable catches Sherlock’s breath. Something dawns inside him, and he fully understands the role he accepted. It is so much more than being able to do what he wants, more than appeasing his selfish inquisitiveness. Darin tilts up his head to look at Sherlock, trust in his eyes. Trust he will treat him well and take care of him. Make this experience good for him. It all rests in Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock thinks a moment as he strokes the underside of Darin’s arms and trails his fingers into the exposed, tender armpit. Although he is inexperienced, sex is no mystery to him. It is a motivator for so many really good crimes, so he has studied numerous sexual practices extensively. Before now, he has never wanted to put any of his knowledge to use.

He budges them down the cushions a bit and presses his back hard into the arm of the sofa. It effectively pins Darin’s clasped hands, trapping them between the sofa and Sherlock’s back. While it would not hold him if he honestly wanted to be free, the suggestion of captivity makes Darin moan. He flexes against the restraint and is soon squirming, testing it. Sherlock ignores his continued writhing and repeatedly soothes his hands over the long plane of his abdominals. Darin eventually surrenders, and melts bonelessly against Sherlock with a relieved sigh.

Sherlock takes this as a cue and continues, gliding both his hands down Darin’s sides and over the external obliques. They form a fascinating diagonal ridge that disappears into Darin’s trousers. Darin jolts as Sherlock’s fingers work just under his waistband and brush the elastic of his pants.Sherlock can see the outline of his arousal in his jeans and the constriction has to be getting irritating. He undoes the flies. In response Darin whines, and raises up his hips. Sherlock’s original intention was to only allow Darin some room, but that cry encourages him to press the trousers off as low as he can reach. He has a half-second to feel the soft fabric of his boxer briefs before Darin makes another, lower, needier sound. Sherlock thinks, _in for a pound_ , and then efficiently strips down his pants too, baring him to the upper thigh. 

Seeing nude men in a forensic setting is simply not adequate preparation for being presented with a live, erect prick. One that you are expected to do something about. Why is his heart banging in his chest like he is afraid? Sherlock has one of his own, of course, so logically he should know exactly what to do. Not that he indulges in self-pleasure much, but it's just simple friction. 

_One step at a time_ , he tells himself. He brushes the line of dark hair that trails down Darin’s belly. He has more body hair than Sherlock does, but is not overly wooly. He can imagine what it will feel like against his skin if they ever slide together, nude. Sherlock shivers at the thought as he reaches down to stroke as much firm thigh as he can reach. Darin is squirming in his embrace now, making soft noises that Sherlock is a bit proud to have caused.

“Sherlock, please,” Darin pleads.

That sends a bolt of lightning through Sherlock's insides. A soft little moan slips out from his own lips in reply.

Sherlock looks back down at Darin’s erection, which looks painfully hard. It is in proportion to his body, not overly large or small. Trying not to overthink it, Sherlock runs the tips of his fingers down the length, feeling the tight, silky skin over heated, rigid flesh. He uses his thumb to feel the loose foreskin, retracted a bit over the darker head underneath. Darin makes a desperate, broken sound and arches into Sherlock’s touch. 

Sherlock quickly drops his hands back down to Darin’s thighs. He’s panicking again. It’s not just the act of touching. It’s something else altogether. The intimacy. It is too much and he’s not ready for this. He feels a flush of humiliation and he silently berates himself. He’s going to disappoint Darin over something so simple. 

Conscious of the delay, Darin turns his head. He catches the wide-eyed expression on Sherlock’s face before he can mask it. 

“Hey. Let me loose,” Darin asks, pulling at his trapped hands. Sherlock lifts his back and lets him free.

Darin sits up a bit and turns to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “I said you could stop, remember?”

Sherlock has had time to set up his defenses, and has plastered on an imperfect sneer. “Yes I remember. I did not say I wanted to stop, did I?”

Darin arches an eyebrow at him. “I am going to the bathroom for a few minutes to take care of this. When I come back, you can resume petting me, or not. Think it over.” He starts to get up off the sofa.

Through the anxiety, the budding, domineering part of Sherlock objects to being overridden. On pure impulse, Sherlock pulls Darin back down against him. Darin lets out an unmanly squeak of surprise.

“Sherlock,” Darin says, annoyed. “I really do need to...”

“Go right ahead,” Sherlock says, challenging him, “but you are not leaving the sofa.”

Darin eyes widen in revelation. “Oh.” 

Sherlock smirks. This is inspired. He doesn’t have to do anything, and has an opportunity to study what Darin likes. Eliminating all the awkward fumbling, trying to deduce it through trial and error.

Darin flashes a rather cheeky grin before settling his head under Sherlock’s chin. He licks his palm, takes himself in hand, and sighs. 

“Talk to me?” Darin suggests.

“About what?” Sherlock asks, distractedly cataloging Darin’s hurried strokes.

“Anything. I just want to hear your voice,” Darin says, his own cracking.

“Dirty talk? You are full of surprises today. You are rather naughty, Dr Allard. What else do you have in store for me?” Sherlock purrs. His hands resume his previous explorations on Darin’s thighs. 

Darin tenses the muscles in his upper chest. He plants his heels into the cushion of the sofa, his hips are starting to thrust up into his hand. “Sorry...this isn’t going to be a long show,” he pants.

Sherlock bends to nibble an earlobe. “If you like to be restrained, I suppose I am going to have to do some shopping for the proper equipment. I have police issue handcuffs and cable ties, but they could injure your hands. You would look lovely in leather.”

 _“Hell,”_ Darin gasps. A crimson flush spreads down his neck, and his strokes speed up. He climaxes with a muffled cry and Sherlock watches his face contort, fascinated. Ejaculate stripes Darin’s belly, and he sags against Sherlock again. Darin frees an arm and feels about for his shirt he threw on the floor to clean himself off.

“That was splendid.” Sherlock holds Darin tightly as he settles back down to earth. Sherlock watches him float on the edge between sleep and wakefulness for several minutes. He doesn’t mind. A languid Darin sprawled over him is quite pleasant. In fact, he could possibly drift off himself, but he remembers something he wanted to ask.

“I think you were to correct to put me in the assertive role. What brought you to that conclusion?”

“As you deduced, this isn’t my first rodeo,” Darin drawls lazily. “You slamming me into the counter a few days ago gave me a good clue.”

“Fair enough.”

“It’s not something I need all the time. If I have been particularly stressed, like this week, it’s...good.” Darin yawns suddenly.

Sherlock shifts them so they are spooning on the sofa. It’s a tight fit. Mostly because of his long limbs, but they shift around until it works.

Darin murmurs, “Oh. If you are serious about shopping, let me show you what I already have, first. Something may suit. If not, I know some stores you can start with.”

Sherlock snorts. “It is always the quiet ones.”

####

Sherlock’s mobile chirps. It’s in his jacket across the room, so he extricates himself from Darin to fetch it. 

_Got an email from a client you’ll want to see. Steven Merridew. Retrograde amnesia. -JW_

He taps open the email, finds the message and scans it in seconds. 

_How soon can he be at Baker Street? -SH_

_Any time. -JW_

_I shall be there within the hour. -SH_

“Something’s on?” Darin asks him, sleepily.

Sherlock nods absently, clicking at his mobile. “Client. I have to go.” He is prepared for disappointment or even anger on Darin’s face. When he turns, Darin is flashing a drowsy smile and waves him off. 

“Get to it, then.”

A feeling of responsibility still lingers. Sherlock goes into Darin’s bedroom and opens his bureau and finds a clean shirt. He pulls the throw off the bed and brings the bundle to the sofa.

“It is cold,” Sherlock mutters in explanation, suddenly somewhat embarrassed by the gesture.

Darin captures his hand and tugs him down for a quick kiss. “Thank you. Now be off, before you’re late.”

##

Sherlock spends most of the cab ride reviewing articles on amnesia and running general Google searches on his prospective client. He loses signal, and only then realizes he was absorbed in the Work for twenty minutes. A solid block of time without thinking about the lover he had just left. He finds it reassuring that his dalliance is not a distraction when he needs to focus on a case. 

Regardless, it is still ill-advised, out of character and downright foolish for him to continue with this affair. Every logical part of him is telling him to run, delete it all, and burn out these new desires. Except that for the first time in his life, he wants it. He is too self-aware to tell lies to himself. He can’t pretend he has not, in quiet moments, imagined an actual future with this man. It’s stupid. It’s dangerous, but his nascent relationship is too brilliant to abandon.

When his phone comes back to life, he taps a text to John and hits send before he can reconsider it.

_Did you suspect you were going insane when you met Mary? -SH_

The cab pulls up the kerb. He pays the fare and exits the car, pulling his collar up against the rain. 

_Absolutely. Everyone feels like that at first. -JW_

_It is intolerable. How do you stand it? -SH_

_It’s a good thing. Really good. -JW_

Sherlock unlocks the door to 221b and steps in, shaking the rain off his coat.

_Insanity is a ‘good thing’? -SH_

Gladstone woofs in greeting when he hears him tread up the stairs. He opens the door, clicks on the lights. He scruffs Gladstone’s head on the way to the kitchen, and clicks on the kettle to prepare to receive his client. 

His phone chirps again.

_To be fair, most of us call that feeling something other than insanity. -JW_

_Most people are insipid. -SH_

_Sure, be that way. I’m happy for you. -JW_

Before Sherlock can ruminate on that, the doorbell rings once. Maximum pressure, just under the half-second. 

_Merridew is here. Call you with case details later. -SH_

As natural and familiar as slipping on his Belstaff, the Consulting Detective takes over his rightful rule of the Mind Palace. He bids The Suitor, the newest, and implausible part of himself, to wait. He tucks away that new man’s concerns, confusions and joys. Stores them for a time in the ever-expanding room that has Darin’s name on the door. 

It works. There is a new case to solve. The sleuth bounds down the steps, blood humming with excitement.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Gowerstreet for betaing everything I do.  
> Also thanks to Anarfea, for kink wrangling, betaing and making me re-write this thing yet again.
> 
> This was a very hard one for me to write and the story went through many false starts and drafts. Sexuality and self-identity are tricky subjects, but ones I felt that had to address as I expanded on the relationship of these two men. Everything here is specifically about these fictional characters, and is not intended to infer anything in real life, other than people can be complicated.


End file.
